When my husband and I were falling in love and committing ourselves to coupledom, I said to him, in all seriousness, “I want decades with you.” That was more than four years ago, when he was 55, and I was 53. It felt like a tall order; his mother died at 62, my father at 47. Then there was the fact that I’d had “a mild case of cancer,” undergoing surgery and radioactive iodine treatment for thyroid cancer. At the time of our courtship, however, I was in fine health, and so was John. (As of this writing we still are, knock wood.) This being the case, I am as hopeful for our future now as I was when we were betrothed. (Great word, isn’t it?) I’m reminded of Emily Dickinson’s great poetic line: “Hope is the thing with feathers.” My husband and I have been flying together for half a decade. I want to soar many more miles with him.

John turns 60 on Thursday, February 13. There’s something about crossing the threshold into a new decade that gives one pause; mid-lifers especially, I think, tend toward reflection here, especially if they’re in a second relationship. We have fewer mile markers in front of us, and we know that one of them will be fateful. All John or I can do is live each day with love—as if every day is Valentine’s Day, as, indeed, it will be the morning after his birthday.

Besides hosting Valentine’s Day, the 14th is a significant date for us because we met on the 14th of June. For that reason, when we decided to marry, we chose August 14 as our wedding day. The middle of February is, you might say, a peak time on our calendar, what with his birthday, V-Day, and, this year, our 56-month anniversary. But this doesn’t necessarily mean it’s black-tie-and-gown party time. Last year, for example, movers in Richmond were loading a truck with our belongings. This year, as I write this, I’m still in a leg cast.

As Connie Schultz says, life happens. John and I might not be able to go out and paint the town Cupid red, but by spreading out the significance of our love over 365 days—that is, by not taking one another for granted—each day feels more valuable, more treasured. Being mindful of our love each day helps us stack the deck. We might have only half a decade on our scorecard, but if we care for each other, are kind to each other, and express our love in ways minuscule as well as magnificent—every single day—it will seem as though we really are getting more decades than the calendar suggests. Some might call this magical thinking. I call it hoping, with feathers.

Marci, aka The Midlife Second Wife, with John on their wedding day. Photo credit: Roger Mastroianni

Where does the time go? It seems only yesterday when I received an “interest” notification via Match.com from “arts&sportslvr,” and here we are, about to celebrate our second wedding anniversary. (Those keeping careful notes will want to know, for the record, that our nuptials took place on August 14, 2010.)

So much has happened in two short, swift years. We moved to another part of the country and set down roots by buying a home. (I also started this blog, which celebrates its first anniversary later this month.) We continue to grow together and learn together and hold each other close when buffeted by life’s vicissitudes. We embrace one another’s neuroses. (Thank you, Wendy Swallow.) We celebrate every triumph, no matter how small. We listen to each other. We support one another. We are a duo, a couple, a unit, a team. We are each other’s best friend.

Do you see the flames in the separate candles we are holding? We are about to create one unified, eternal flame. It still burns strong and bright, despite a few clouds, despite some wind and rain. When we decided to get married, we knew there would be challenges to face—how could there not be? We were each of us starting over, from scratch, midway through our lives. The light at the end of the tunnel seemed so dim, so seemingly light-years away, that we simply had to trust that it was there. It is there. It flickers, sometimes brightly, sometimes with just a pale fire. It is, in the words of our wedding poem (Wendell Berry’s “The Country of Marriage”):

a pattern
made in the light for the light to return to.
The forest is mostly dark, its ways
to be made anew day after day, the dark
richer than the light and more blessed,
provided we stay brave
enough to keep on going in.

We are nothing if not brave. What else can we be? We are human and we live in this world and we have faith. And we are together, thank God.

On what will be our second wedding anniversary—and on every day of our lives together—I say to “arts&sportslvr:” Thank you for joining your candle to mine, and mine to yours.

Several months after John and I became engaged, I was assisting a journalist at the New York Times with a story—part of my regular duties as director of communications for the music conservatory where I worked. During our e-mail exchange, I mentioned that I was getting remarried, relocating to Virginia, and would soon be leaving my job. She wrote back to wish me luck and tell me about a book that crossed her desk when she was an editor at the Times Book Review. She found it “extremely interesting and well written,” she wrote, and sent me a link that led me to Wendy Swallow’s The Triumph of Love Over Experience: A Memoir of Remarriage. Something told me to read it—most likely the voice inside my head suggesting that after a quarter century of marriage and seven post-divorce years on my own, advice from a person who had been in the trenches might be useful. Deeply in love, John and I share a common sense of how to be in the world and of the world—with the same values, faith, and politics—and we operate from the same zone of trust and honesty. We’ve always been able to communicate easily and openly about our relationship. Still, advice from an expert is always welcome, and I was curious to see how someone else navigated the waters we were about to enter. I should mention that Wendy and her second husband each had two sons when they remarried—all of them teenagers.

Her book was a comfort to me, a survival guide, user’s manual, and road map all in one. I have recommended it countless times—and not just to second couples—anyone in a relationship will benefit from reading it. Regular followers of this blog already know that I’ve cited Wendy’s wisdom before. One of my favorite quotes appears on the “Secrets to a Happy Relationship” page, which you can find at the top of the blog. When I began formulating the editorial objectives for The Midlife Second Wife, I determined that mine would not be the only voice you would hear; a section devoted to interviews with experts was therefore essential. Wendy Swallow is the first person to whom I reached out. I’m pleased and honored that she agreed to do this interview. Here is an edited transcript of our conversation, which took place on Thursday, December 1, 2011:

Wendy, thanks so much for participating in this interview. I’ve been looking forward to our conversation for some time. So have some of my readers. One of them sent me this e-mail:

I’m not in midlife … and not a second wife, but I’m having thoughts and fears of a second marriage. I’m 43 and said that I would never remarry, but I have recently found someone who I would consider marrying and I’m scared as hell!

Based on the research you did for your memoir of remarriage—and based on your own happy experience—what do you say to people who are genuinely frightened by the prospect of “stepping off the cliff and hoping to be able to fly?”

Those fears need to be taken seriously. That doesn’t mean you give in to them, but you listen to them and examine them. You have to trust your gut on this stuff, but you also have to really believe strongly—and the research bears this out—that the people who do best in a remarriage are those who have really worked to process what happened in their first marriage and their divorce, and who have grown from those experiences. That means perhaps going into counseling, accepting your role in what did not go well in your former relationship and where those problems lay, and in your ongoing relationship with your ex—even if the person that you left seems mostly to blame for the marriage’s failure from your perspective. Everybody has to look at how they contributed to the marriage not working out—even going so far as to ask why you married that person in the first place. This is especially true if you have children. I believe strongly in this. I don’t think it’s an easy process to go through. But if you want to grow and be able to marry again, this is an important piece of the puzzle. You have to keep those lessons in front of you. Researchers find that people who do not do well in remarriage never really learned the lessons of their first failed marriage. The statistics for second marriages succeeding are not great. And for those who remarry a third time, the odds that that marriage won’t work increase, and they go up for each subsequent remarriage.

I know. The numbers are pretty grim.Your reminder that we learn the lessons from our past experiences is critically important. What other conscious decisions must a couple make, and what actions must they take, for their second marriage to have a shot at success?

One of the things Charlie and I told each other early on was this: “I just want to be clear: I’m not rescuing you.” We were mostly talking to ourselves. We married our first spouses because we wanted to help them be more stable in the world. After my marriage ended, it ultimately became more important to me that I be really stable and happy in my single, divorced life. I knew this for myself, but I wasn’t sure that Charlie saw that.

There’s a moment in the book where I write about how we went to counseling with a minister. At the very first session, she managed to surface the whole issue of money, because we had a wealth disparity in our relationship. It wasn’t a bad thing—we didn’t think that money was something we’d have to spend a lot of time worrying about. But we had slightly different attitudes to this disparity in our relationship—we had two alien cultures coming together—and we recognized that it could create challenges in the future. It took—it always takes—compromise and communication to work those things out, so having these counseling sessions helped us; even if you think you know what you’re doing, a little premarital counseling can go a long way.

I want to return to the topic of compromise, but first I have to say something about premarital counseling. In our case, that train had left the station; that’s why I was so glad to read your book. How risky is it to take on a second marriage without going through couples’ therapy first? What advice do you have for those who are leaving it to their own devices?

I do think there’s a lot of good literature out there, and many excellent books that deal with stepfamilies, so there are a lot of resources. You can get counseling in various ways. A wise, good friend can be helpful. Definitely you have to talk to each other.

Before I left my first husband, I remember talking to a friend who remarried. I asked him what worked in his second marriage that didn’t work in his first. He said that when he married his second wife, he told her, “If you have a problem with something I’m doing, tell me right away. Don’t let it snowball.” That was their mantra.

I really thought about that. If you establish that you can talk about the difficult issues together early, then that’s good.

Very early on, our kids got into this habit that we worried about at first: drinking milkshakes at 10 at night and watching South Park in the kitchen. At first Charlie and I hung around, but then we realized they had more fun without us there. So we started taking our dog out for a long walk while they had their time together. It was perfectly natural; we didn’t like South Park. We’d leave the house with the dog for those long walks, and that was when we could talk without people hearing us or wondering why we were huddled together and whispering. We were both working full-time and running all over D.C. with these kids to play practice, SAT prep—we had very little downtime with each other—so those walks were very helpful in giving us a chance to download. His boys would bring their issues to him, mine to me; kids communicate with their own parents, mostly. Sometimes there were things I needed to know, and I wanted to anticipate what level of support was required of me.

That’s a great example of using every opportunity to keep the lines of dialogue open. Let’s get back to the subject of compromise. It’s undoubtedly important, but is there such a thing as too much compromise?

I think you have to trust your gut. You might agree to compromise on something but it doesn’t sit right with you. Trusting your gut has two actions:

1. Listening to your inner feelings, and assessing those feelings. How fair are they?

2. Acknowledging that there may be something you either need to bring back or learn to deal with. Which is it?

It’s not enough to listen to your gut—you must assess your feelings. Let your rational, less emotional brain think about it. Once you’ve done that, ask yourself what you really think will be different after your compromise—what outcome are you looking for?

There’s a famous moment in our family when we all learned a lot about compromise. My youngest stepson, Sam (the second-youngest of the boys) was advocating for a cell phone; he went to a school that was farther from home than the others. We worried about the cost of four cell phones, thinking that if we got one for Sam, we’d have to get phones for all four boys, as they were close in age. It begged the question: Who is ready for something, and who isn’t?

Each boy got his own computer when they started high school; before that, they had to share. And they would be taking their computers to college. We thought we were being fair and equitable. But after much discussion about the cell phone, Sam turned to us and said, “Can no one be special anymore?”

The truth is, each boy was different and had different needs, but we were trying to homogenize everyone. Benjamin called it “the kindergarten effect.” When we all moved in together, I had a cubby for each boy, color-coded toothbrushes and towels. The boys saw it as infantilizing. The house would have run more smoothly if the Wendy-scheme had worked, but the boys weren’t in that place.

Sometimes you set out with a plan that you think is fair and equitable, but life is a lot messier than that. The boys picked up on the fact that we wanted to be fair and equitable—and they appreciated it—but we were also able to articulate that within the family, some had specific needs.

The lesson is, compromise is a double-edged sword. Sometimes an imposition of the will of one person over the other has to be negotiated.

Here’s another compromise-related question, and a timely one, with Christmas only two weeks away: How do you handle the holidays?

In the early days we had a little trouble, because although Charlie and I tried to organize things well in advance, not all parties involved were planners—they would do things at the last minute, or not consult with us, so the matter of who was even going to be with us was often up in the air.

We did okay, though. One of the things we decided early on was that because our kids were teenagers, we were not going to pretend to make a happy family out of the six of us just because we were cohabitating. Both our sets of boys spent time with their other parents. Both of us had joint custody, which was nice. Sometimes we just had his kids, sometimes just mine, sometimes all four, sometimes nobody. We’d have four different alternatives in a two-week period. My older sister, who is a minister, says, when something is stressful:

“I’m trying to hold this lightly.”

This Christmas we’re expecting to have all four boys together for the first time in four years; all four of them without other people. We’re still waiting for word on the fourth and hope we get him. But we’re “trying to hold it lightly.” If it doesn’t work, it’s not the end of the world.

I learned from my first marriage that the good moments in life are not necessarily going to happen on a designated day. Many wonderful moments take place on completely average days.

The other thing is, we really didn’t want the kids to feel the stress of two families on the holidays, so we would accept that the kids were happy with the parent they were with. We’d have a night two weeks into December where we did something special together, like decorate the tree. We learned to get very flexible.

People get into trouble when they have a preset romantic notion of how something should look, whether it’s marriage, or what a holiday is supposed to look like. Life is way more variable. What is precious in life is not a perfectly decorated tree with all people in their seats at the table. Life can be messy.We’ve had holidays where we didn’t even put lights on the tree. It just has to be good enough as it is.

Whatever it is, Charlie will always say, “Let’s make this fun.”

Our first Thanksgiving in a restaurant was kind of sad for me; it wasn’t with my big family. Charlie found this cool restaurant and we were seated way up high. It was a lovely experience, but partly it was because he said “Let’s just make this a really cool event they’ll always remember.

One day we were trying to choose a movie to rent, deciding which one would be the most fun. The boys said, “Let’s do several movies!” It wasn’t what I had in mind, but I took Charlie’s line and asked myself: “Is there some way to have fun here?

Compromise again, which takes negotiating. Pro and Con lists are great tools for that—especially for working through big decisions. For a couple about to get remarried, what in your view are the top three things that should appear on the Pro side of their ledger? And what top three items on the Con side of the list suggest trouble ahead?

On the Pro side, I think that these must be at the top of the list:

1. Both parties need to be tolerant, patient, mature, and capable of self-examination.

In my first marriage, I didn’t understand how mature I had to be in the world. In my second marriage, I learned, partly from working for many years, that there’s something about the business world that enables most people to deal with people even if they don’t like them. A lot of the attributes about how we behave outside of the family can help us be better members of our own family. I don’t think I should give voice to all of my angry moments. I do a lot of waiting, so I don’t feel so strongly about the issue and can then address it with my more mature self.

2. Each person needs to be truly loving. They have to really love each other—love all of each other—the whole ball of wax.

None of us are perfect. We will all disappoint each other at times. But who is really there for me? And who am I really there for? Charlie and I didn’t get married for three years; we didn’t make any rash movements. I had worked so hard to recover from my first marriage that it took my brain time to catch up with my heart in order to accept him with all of his baggage. I knew that it was going to take time. Research bears this out: Rapid remarriage is dicier statistically than thoughtful, careful remarriage.

I knew that there was a whole process that Charlie had to go through—that he and his ex had to go through—without me coming in.

3. Your kids have to be in a place where they will be able to cope with your remarriage.

Charlie and I did not move in together before we married—not for moral or religious reasons, but because I was not going to ask my children to be at the kitchen table with a stranger every morning unless I was sure that this was a permanent thing. And his kids were really not ready; it was a little harder for them when it did happen because their parents’ divorce was more recent.

Not all kids are going to be ready for their parents to remarry. I know marriages that have sort of gone forward without everyone at the table. It’s not that they won’t be successful; it’s just that things will be tougher. It can be painful. I’ve watched a couple of families whose kids went into battle mode. Our own kids did not need to make us unhappy; they were very relieved that their parents were happier once they remarried.

Now, for the Con side …

1. Any impulsive behaviors

One example of an impulsive behavior would be getting together when it is motivated by something other than “this is the smart thing to do.” One thing I found in my research is that women are more likely to remarry partly to solve financial problems. Many women come out of a divorce living a more reduced life, and they struggle significantly. Women are somewhat motivated by financial concerns; who can blame them? But if that is the main motivation, that’s a problem.

Another impulsive behavior is getting married in the first blush of love before you know who somebody is—acting impulsively towards remarriage rather than thinking it out carefully and taking the time to know who you’re marrying. When you remarry, it’s not just the person you’re marrying; it’s their larger family. It’s their baggage. It’s their divorce.

2. Wrangling over property and money from early on in the relationship

We’ve all heard stories of someone who married a person who dictated everything, including where they will live, because the person they are marrying is very established in their lives and their career. If one party is having to give up everything and the other is not giving up anything, that’s destabilizing. It makes you wonder why they’re not compromising. One area where this comes up in a big way, even subconsciously, is property.

When the kids and I moved into Charlie’s house (partly for financial reasons) there were advantages. It was closer to my job. We would be only two blocks from my ex, which was a huge boon for my kids. But it was their house. When we moved my stuff in, I put it all in the living room, then I asked for a shelf or two. We worked it all out, negotiating so that decisions weren’t made automatically and arbitrarily. If one person in a proposed remarriage is unwilling to compromise on some of this stuff, that’s a problem.

The issue of property is interesting. When I was interviewing people for my book, I met one couple that fought because the husband needed a home office and he took away his young step-daughter’s playroom.By the time I’d met them, she was a grown woman who no longer lived at home, but she still hadn’t forgiven him. It’s all about territoriality. People identify certain things, rooms, and buildings with different stages in their lives.

Here’s another thing I learned from my divorce. My ex and I had less trouble deciding about how to deal with our kids afterward because he’s trustworthy. He had issues, but trust was never one of them. He never once missed a support payment. He never stood the boys up. We shared the same values on education and on who the boys would become. We shared the same religious life. We shared the basic values.

If either party lacks integrity, then there’s going to be a lot more distrust in a marriage, and trust is the most important thing. You have to really know a person to know if they’ve got a spotty trust history.

Wendy, you’ve written a book about divorce and a book about remarriage. Do you have any plans for a third book about relationships?

I never really meant to write a memoir to begin with, and then I wrote two even though I thought I shouldn’t write one until I was 80 and my parents were gone. I don’t think I’ll write another book about relationships; I’m not really sure I have anything more to add to the literature at this point. I’ve just spent four years writing my first novel. I’m working with my agent, and hoping it will be published in the next year or so. Part of me wants to do more non-fiction. We now live in Nevada half of the year, and I’ve become very interested in climate change, especially as it relates to the West. When my kids were young, I had all sorts of story ideas in my head about families and kids with issues. Maybe if I ever have grandkids …

You’ve now been remarried for ten years. What would you tell your younger self if you could travel back in time to the eve of your wedding?

It would be to have confidence. I’d say, “Trust yourself and trust Charlie, because it’s all gonna be fine. You’ve made an excellent choice. Trust it and rejoice in it.”

Wendy Swallow is an author and journalist who recently retired as an emeritus professor of journalism after nearly 20 years of teaching at American University in Washington, D.C. She started her career as a reporter and editor on the financial desk of the Washington Post, covering the savings and loan crisis, local business, and regional environmental issues. In academia, she researched and wrote about advertiser pressure on newspaper coverage and the influence of new technology on journalism. More recently, she has turned to writing about family issues. She has published two books with Hyperion, Breaking Apart: A Memoir of Divorce (2001) and The Triumph of Love Over Experience: A Memoir of Remarriage (2005). In addition to many newspapers, her work has appeared in MORE,Washingtonian, Ladies’ Home Journal, Readers’ Digest, Parenting, The National Journal, Washington Journalism Review, Journalism Quarterly, Journalism Educator, Newspaper Research Journal, and Extra! She is currently working on an historical novel and divides her time between homes in Reno, Nevada, and Washington, D.C. She and her husband Charles Shepard have four grown sons.

When you remarry in middle age, the chances are good that you’ll be enlarging your family by more than one person. Between us, John and I now have three sons. (Before remarrying, my boy was the only child of an only child—me.) At the time of our wedding, the three boys were, in fact, not boys at all but young men: my Matthew was 29; John’s Patrick was 23, and Colin had just turned 18. And that is the last time I shall refer to them in an individual, proprietary way; they are ours now. Guys, I know you’re reading this. We love you.

Much has been written about blended families, or bonded families, or whatever euphemism you wish to use. But I find myself coming back to Wendy Swallow’s book, The Triumph of Love Over Experience; she writes with great sensitivity on the challenges inherent in merging two families when the children are adolescents or younger:

“We hardly thought of the boys as baggage, but there they were nonetheless, hulking young men with their own perfectly appropriate teenage issues and growing suspicions about the intimacy between us. Whether they liked it or not, they were passengers on this journey …”

Passengers on a journey…what a wonderful metaphor! I’ll have a question or two about the stepchild aspect of remarriage when I interview Wendy for this blog. But for now, and to paraphrase Tolstoy, I can’t help observing that every original family is alike; every blended family is blended in its own way.

In John’s and my case, we’ve had scant time or opportunity to engage as a cohesive family unit since our marriage. We relocated from Ohio to Virginia when John was offered a job here. Matthew, already graduated from college, has his own established life in Ohio; Patrick is busy attending graduate school in Illinois; Colin, also in Ohio, is in his first year of college. Varied schedules and the vagaries of geography have kept us apart more than they have brought us together, and John and I knew it would be thus. Aside from one major holiday, our wedding was the only time our three sons have been together with us. When we were planning our wedding, then, the question of how to encourage each young man to feel a part of something new, vital, loving, and familial was paramount. What roles could they perform in the wedding to secure our mutual bonds? And what—if anything—should we do with respect to ceremonial vows?

An Australian blogger here on WordPress, “Stepmum of the Year,” posed the question with more than a little trepidation. She has no children; her partner, known on her blog as “The Lovely Man,” has three boys, all pre-adolescent or close to it. Stepmum and Lovely Man are getting married; he has asked that his sons be included somehow in the ceremony, suggesting that perhaps they even write vows to them. Given her life experience and the ages of the children, she is understandably cautious, and in this terrific list, she exhibits sage wisdom:

I’m absolutely not going to say anything that doesn’t feel true.
I’m not ready to promise the kids anything that isn’t entirely in my power to deliver, or shouldn’t be solely my responsibility…
And I refuse to say anything that might tighten the choke hold of their loyalty binds – no “Yay, new family, love everyone, take you to be my children, yay!” kinds of things. Honestly, I Googled “stepfamily wedding vows” and there was so much schmaltz that I entered a whole new emotional state – kind of a cross between nauseated and despairing.

So? What’s a soon-to-be “stepmum” to do?

Given the differences in our circumstances, the approach that John and I took might not work for the Aussies; those concerns, however, inspired me to share this part of our story on the blog. And I should tell you that it is only with the permission of my husband and all three of our sons that I am doing so; if even one of them had a moment’s hesitation, you’d be reading something else right now.

To begin with, John and I felt that it was important for the boys to actively participate in the ceremony itself.

My mother walked me down the aisle at my first wedding; my father had died when I was 13. Now, with my second wedding at hand, who was the logical choice? My mother had passed away in 2000.

There was no doubt: it should be Matthew. In no way, however, was he “giving me away.” Aside from being a rather archaic expression, the phrase was packed with meanings I didn’t want him to carry: I am, and always will be, his mom. He doesn’t “give me away” to anybody. Instead, he “presented me” to John, as in: “Mister Groom, may I present Ms. Bride?”

Patrick was John’s Best Man, and he and Colin ushered guests to their seats and lit the candles prior to the ceremony. All three of our sons gave beautiful readings during the ceremony. These were clearly age-appropriate roles. Engaged couples with small children might not find them to be the best candidates for candle lighting; perhaps they could guide guests to their seats instead? Or serve as junior members of the wedding party?

At the end of the day, though, this is all just logistics. John and I still wanted to publicly acknowledge our love for our guys, yet we didn’t want to detract from our own vows to each other. And here is where I should add that we opted for the steeped-in-tradition vows from the Book of Common Prayer: This is what John said to me after taking my right hand in his:

“In the Name of God, I, John, take you, Marci, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow.”

My vows to John were the same. We loved the simplicity of these words, rich with meaning. At this stage in our lives, it just didn’t make sense to tamper with tradition. Although timeworn (not unlike us!), these vows perfectly expressed what we were, and are, acutely aware of: our union truly is “for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health.”

As for vows to our children, the “Marriage Missions International” website was of considerable help. We would, however, articulate these vows in our own special staging. Allow me to explain with a brief bit of back story.

On our first date, June 14, 2009, John and I met outside the Allen Memorial Art Museum on the campus of Oberlin College, where I worked. Slightly to the south of the museum sits an ancient European Weeping Beech Tree and an arbor. In June, this tree was in full foliage; we sat beneath its branches, talking and getting to know one another. And laughing! We both laughed so hard and so happily that a couple, peering through the foliage, said:

“There are people here. We couldn’t see anyone; we thought this was a laughing tree.”

And so it was that one year and two months—to the day—after we first met, following the formal ceremony in Fairchild Chapel, John and I led our guests in a brief procession around part of Tappan Square until we reached the Bacon Arbor and our Laughing Tree. It looked like the Sicilian Wedding scene in The Godfather, Part I.

When all were assembled beneath the arbor, John began:

“Matthew, I want you to know that I dearly love your mother. She and I met beneath this tree, and this spot is hallowed ground to us. We have become very good friends over this past year and we have learned to love each other. As you have so graciously shared this wonderful woman with me, so will I share the love I feel for her with you. Together, we will learn much more about each other.

At this place that means so much to your mother and me, I promise also to be fair and to be honest, to be available for you as I am for your mom, and in due time, to earn your love, respect, and true friendship. I will not attempt to replace anyone, but to make a place in your heart that is for me alone. I will be father and friend, and I will cherish my life with you. On this day, when I marry your mom, I marry you, and I promise to love and support you as my own.”

Then it was my turn:

“Patrick and Colin, I want you to know that I dearly love your father. He and I met beneath this tree, and this spot is hallowed ground to us. We have become very good friends over this past year and we have learned to love each other. As you have so graciously shared this wonderful man with me, so will I share the love I feel for him with both of you. Together, we will learn much more about each other.

At this place that means so much to your father and me, I promise also to be fair and to be honest, to be available for you as I am for your dad, and in due time, to earn your love, respect, and true friendship. I will not attempt to replace anyone, but to make a place in your heart that is for me alone. I will be mother and friend, and I will cherish my life with you. On this day, when I marry your dad, I marry you, and I promise to love and support you as my own.”

Reading my vows to Patrick and Colin

John and I also wanted to say a few words to the boys we each raised, especially since we would be, within two short weeks, moving so very far away:

Patrick and Colin, my sons, thank you for the generosity with which you have welcomed Marci—and Matthew—into your lives. Thank you for being such an important part of our wedding ceremony. And thank you for being such wonderful and fine young men. I love you both forever, and Marci and I will always be there for you, no matter how many miles separate us.”

“Matthew, my son, thank you for the generosity with which you have welcomed John—and Patrick and Colin—into your life. Thank you for being such an important part of our wedding ceremony. And thank you for being such a wonderful and fine young man. I love you forever, and John and I will always be there for you, no matter how many miles separate us.”

Our celebrant, Brian K. Wilbert, concluded this moving part of our ceremony with the sign of peace.

As much as I’ve always loved clothes, no one could ever mistake me for a fashion trendsetter. I mean, come on. Until last year, I lived in Ohio. For my entire life. (No offense, Buckeye State. I love you and always will.) But three days after posting an essay on the blog about wearing black for my second wedding, a friend on Facebook sent me a link to an October 19 ABC News story about acclaimed wedding gown designer Vera Wang’s newest collection. I found additional coverage from Buzz60 via YouTube. Take a look:

I’m sensing that announcer Maureen Aladin isn’t a fan of the look. What about you? If you were getting married again, would you wear black? Would you consider it if you were planning a first wedding? Share your comments below. And have a great weekend!

It almost goes without saying that the experience of shopping for a second-wedding dress differs dramatically from the inaugural experience. The two are as different, you might say, as black and white.

In 1977, as a rookie bride-to-be, an entourage accompanied me on this cultural rite-of-passage: mother, maid of honor, and three bridesmaids. They attended me with the sort of devotion and diligence that acolytes reserve for royalty. They were as solicitous as a bevy of Pippa Middletons.

I and my entourage laid claim to Maryann’s Bridals in Lorain, Ohio, with the unbridled enthusiasm exhibited by women who, one would think, had never shopped before. We squealed. We sighed. We preened. We vamped. After several hours, we departed triumphant, a jumble of Qiana, tulle, and sequins in our wake.

Photo credit: Gordon de la Vars

This is what being a bride for the first time is like. This is what it is like on your wedding morn, too. I remember driving to Cleveland on the day of my divorce, 26 years later, painfully mindful of the disparity. When you get married, you do it surrounded by loved ones. When you get divorced, you do it on your own.

I was not alone, however, when I shopped for my second wedding dress; my fiancé accompanied me, in defiance of all superstition. It was a gray, rainy afternoon, and we had just left his younger son’s rugby game. The drive took us past Catan’s—“America’s Largest Bridal Salon”—in Strongsville, Ohio. It was late April, the wedding was less than four months away, and I was quietly panicking. A dress I had ordered online looked gorgeous on the website. On me it was matronly; I felt tired and washed-out looking in it, like week-old champagne.

“Let’s just run in and see what they have,” John suggested. “It will be fun.”

Fun? Let me tell you something about shopping for a wedding dress on a rainy day when you are 54-years-old. It is, in a word, ridiculous.

But John actually enjoys shopping, especially for me. In that enclave of satin, lace, and tiaras (which might as well have had a “Women Only” sign over the door, or, in my case, given my trepidation, “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here,”) he was my doting entourage.

I had already decided that I was not going to wear white or ivory, and I was far too mature for the traditional gown and veil. My choices were limited to the “Mother-of-the-Bride” and “Special Occasion” departments and hampered by an extremely modest budget. Truth be told, there were times when I thought it might be wiser and less stressful for us to elope, but this wedding was far too special to me to put a gloss on it. It marked the beginning of a new, midlife life, with the kind of man I always dreamed of but never thought I’d meet. I wanted to make a meaningful entrance into this fresh, second-half of my time on this earth, and with as much elegance as I could gather around me.

We had, in fact, agreed that a traditional ceremony, with as many of the trimmings as we could afford, would be a lasting memory for our sons, and symbolize for them the new family that we were fashioning.

Yet, as ridiculous as being my age and shopping for a wedding dress (or, more precisely, a dress in which to get married) seemed, it also represented something exhilarating and somewhat paradoxical, given the circumstances: freedom.

I was, forever, no longer 21. The princess-bride fantasies I once harbored had long since been relegated to the remainder bin. If I wanted to wear my favorite color, I was free to do so.

And so it was that the bride wore black.*

If the dress that I selected had anything to say to the world, it would be this:

Here is a new, albeit older, bride. A modern bride. A bride who, on occasion, likes to tweak tradition. A bride who knows what is what in this world. A bride who has lived five decades and four years, and who holds no preconceptions or illusions beneath an illusion veil. (Indeed, I would wear a single, simple calla lily in my hair.)

Yes. The dress suited me. And, winking at superstition myself, I peeked out of the fitting room to find John.

“Well? What do you think?”

“You look beautiful,” he said, smiling. “You’ve found the dress.”

Yes. The groom saw the bride in her gown before the wedding.

And so far, they’re living happily ever after.

*There’s a marvelous François Truffaut film from the late 1960s called The Bride Wore Black, starring the exquisite Jeanne Moreau, the plot of which has nothing whatsoever to do with my own story. Luckily.